Mississippi Mud Pie
If I ever need to feel totally like myself, I head to the kitchen and bake.
Before you read on, a quick content warning. This month’s essay mentions depression and anorexia.
If I ever need to feel totally like myself, I head to the kitchen and bake. I like making the same thing over and over, committing it to memory with my fingers. I like how I move around the kitchen. I like knowing how something should feel when it’s just right. And most of all, I like knowing that I’m good at it.
I went to a high school with few creative offerings, which meant that it was a difficult place for me. Art class was where I felt most at home, and I eventually went to art college and studied sculpture. But truthfully, I never really knew how to make art. There was a precision I was always searching for. In the marks I made and the space I filled, I never quite felt it click into place. After college, I interned for a while before landing a job as the project manager of a London gallery. I thought I’d cracked the code. I was a fine-arts graduate with a proper job. But it didn’t take long to realize that sitting at a desk bringing other people’s ideas to fruition made me miserable. So I gave myself six months to figure out what I was really good at.
It was baking. I’d spend much of the workweek thinking about what to bake over the weekend, then proudly bring what I’d made to colleagues. Pride was an unfamiliar feeling. For most of my twenties, I’d been drowning in self-hate, despising myself so fully that I developed anorexia. I was bullied in high school and left a year early because I was so unhappy. In my late teens, two abusive relationships compounded the sense that there was something terrible about me. I felt that there was a force in me that compelled people to try to change or contain me, that as a whole person, I was unlovable. The sadness rooted itself so deeply that my solution for it was to try to exist less.
Baking as a hobby was both treat and torture. I loved the process and found the precision I’d been looking for. The skills I acquired were concrete and demonstrable. And I loved to share what I’d made, even as I denied it to myself. I'd sneak the tiniest taste in private, if I allowed myself one at all. When I dished out slices to friends and colleagues, I’d say I’d had my fair share at home. But their compliments softened the edge of my self-destruction. I decided to quit my job to become a baker.
Soon after, I left London for an apprenticeship at a bakery in Paris. After a week, the task of dividing out hundreds of kilos of dough every day had stiffened my hands into aching claws. I’d leave my shift too hungry to ration the baguette or pastry I took home. It had been years since I’d eaten a whole pastry by myself. It wasn’t a miracle cure—I still had to pay a therapist a lot of money to help me recover—but it was a toe in the water. Something else happened in Paris. I was completely alone, and I could just listen to myself. It allowed me to imagine what I wanted from life. I wanted to work for myself, doing what I was good at, and to be recognised as a whole person. It helped me find the courage to be content exactly as I was.
There’s so much I’m proud of between then and now. But I’ve been a mother for nine months, and nothing in my life has so confused my sense of self. My body became a vessel and an anchor. Food flows from me, comfort sits in the warmth between the baby’s skin and mine. When he was a week old, I broke down in tears thinking about how our time together gets shorter with every day. Each week brings a new development—seemingly overnight, his clumsy belly-scooching has become an efficient commando crawl—and we slowly expand the space between us. I feel myself disappear behind his radiance. I step to the side so that friends can take him in their arms, squeeze his thighs, pinch his cheeks. I struggle to pluck simple words from my brain, the forgetfulness spreading into every corner. I grasp at time, wishing it would stand still or stretch out or speed forward. My days are so full and yet filled with nothing at all. Even with my hair thinned and skin dulled, I prefer my image when he’s a part of it, strapped to my chest or perched on my hip. The love I feel for my baby is a universe all its own, and I’m a tiny, faded star, feeling around for the ever-moving boundary.
As Abe grows, I want him to feel the completeness of my love, but also to understand that I’m someone apart from being his mother. The best way to do that is to see me bake. I tried sitting him in his high chair with a selection of toys, but nothing could hold his interest long enough for me to bake a cake. So I decided to wear him instead. He watches while I crack eggs, whip cream, roll out pastry. I show him how a properly kneaded bread dough can stretch as thin as a window pane, and I tell him how it feels in my hands. I say, “Do you smell that? It smells like the cake is ready.” I tell him that to be a good baker, you need to use all your senses. I talk to him about how important salt is in sweet baking, why to use this sugar or that one, when the butter should be soft and slack or cold and hard. I hold back his wandering hands and feet as I open the oven, strain my body away from the chopping board and sharp knives. We dance to music and I sing in his ear. There are much easier ways to bake, but to have him with me is to show him who I am. And that feels good.
My first taste of Mississippi mud pie came from Pie Society, a pandemic pop-up bakery in Berkeley that’s since relocated to the Hudson Valley. It sounded altogether too much to me: buttery graham-cracker crust, hazelnut brownie, chocolate cream, whipped coffee cream, extra brownie pieces. But it was completely balanced. As we sat at the table for dessert, Abe on someone else’s lap, I passed around slices. As I ate mine, I decided that I’d eventually need a version of my own to share with him. He was with me while I developed each element. Though I know he won’t remember any of it, I hope that his senses were triggered, that foundations for lasting memories were being laid. And that one day, when we enjoy a slice together, we can talk about how all the layers of the pie work together to form the delicious, beautiful whole. That even if we worry it might be too much, we love it anyway.
If making graham crackers from scratch is a step too far for you, you can use store-bought without feeling the tiniest bit of guilt. In the UK, digestive biscuits will do the trick. In Germany, use Hobbits. It's not a quick bake, so set aside a good amount of time to complete all the layers. This is a pie that’s made to share, for special occasions, or just because you feel like it. Make it for your friends, to lift them when they’re struggling, to celebrate them when they’re thriving. And make one for your mother because goodness knows it’s the least you can do.
Mississippi mud pie
Makes a 26-centimeter pie
For the base
300 grams graham crackers/digestive biscuits/Hobbits
¼ teaspoon fine salt, heaped
90 grams unsalted butter, melted
For the brownie
90 grams unsalted butter, cubed
100 grams dark chocolate (ideally 60% cocoa solids)
90 grams fine sugar (caster)
1 whole egg, room temperature
20 grams cocoa powder
50 grams plain flour
¼ teaspoon baking powder
¼ teaspoon fine salt
For the whipped chocolate cream
200 grams whipping cream
100 grams mascarpone
30 grams powdered sugar
⅛ teaspoon fine salt
100 grams dark chocolate (ideally 60% cocoa solids), melted and cooled
For the coffee whipped cream
250 grams whipping cream
50 grams mascarpone
20 grams powdered sugar
2 teaspoons instant coffee (decaf is fine)
⅛ teaspoon fine salt
Equipment
26-centimeter pie dish
Food processor
Small metal measuring cup
Electric hand mixer
Stand mixer (optional)
Pizza cutter (optional)
Pastry docker (optional)
For the base
Preheat the oven to 160ºC (with fan). Add the graham crackers (or whichever biscuit you’re using) to the bowl of a food processor, breaking them down into smaller chunks as you go. Blitz them to fine crumbs. If you don’t have a food processor, put the crackers into a ziplock bag instead and bash them to fine crumbs with a rolling pin. Transfer the crumbs to a mixing bowl and add the salt. Stir in the butter until all the crumbs are coated, then transfer everything to your pie dish.
Moving it in circles, use the base of a small measuring cup (1/4 cup size is perfect) to smooth out the base. Use the side of the cup to push the crumbs all the way up the sides of the dish too. Using the cup will keep the base even and compact the crumbs at the same time.
Bake in the oven for 15 minutes. The crumbs will be just set. Remove from the oven and set aside while you prepare the brownie layer.
For the brownie
Add the butter and chocolate to a large, heat-proof mixing bowl and set over a pot of simmering water. Make sure the bottom of the bowl doesn’t touch the water. Melt the butter and chocolate and stir periodically to combine.
Remove the bowl from the heat and add the sugar and egg. Use an electric hand mixer to beat the mixture together. It should look thick and glossy, and the grain of the sugar should reduce. Sift together the cocoa, flour, baking powder, and salt, then add the dry ingredients to the chocolate mixture. Use the electric hand mixer to combine everything.ﾠ
Transfer the finished brownie mixture to the pie crust, and use a spatula to gently smooth it out so it covers the whole base.
Return to the oven for 20 minutes. Set aside to cool completely at room temperature.
For the whipped chocolate cream
Add the whipping cream, mascarpone, powdered sugar, and salt to a deep mixing bowl. Using an electric hand mixer, whip together until it forms sturdy but not quite stiff peaks. You can also do this in a stand mixer, using the balloon whisk attachment. Take care not to over-whip because the mixture will become grainy. Gently fold in the cooled melted chocolate.
Transfer the whipped chocolate cream to the cooled crust, and smooth it out so it completely covers the brownie layer. Put it in the fridge to set.
For the whipped coffee cream
Add the whipping cream, mascarpone, powdered sugar, instant coffee, and salt to a deep mixing bowl. Using an electric hand mixer, whip together until it forms soft peaks. As with the whipped chocolate cream, you can also do this in a stand mixer. Take care not to over-whip.
Transfer the whipped coffee cream to the pie, and smooth it so it covers the chocolate cream.
Set in the fridge until you’re ready to serve.
For the graham crackers
200 grams wholemeal flour
100 grams plain flour
½ teaspoon cinnamon (Ceylon variety)
¼ teaspoon baking soda (bicarbonate of soda)
½ teaspoon fine salt
40 grams soft light brown sugar
40 grams granulated sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla paste
150 grams butter, cubed and cold
60 grams runny honey
2 tablespoons whole milk
Add the wholemeal flour, plain flour, cinnamon, baking soda, salt, light brown sugar, granulated sugar, vanilla paste, and butter to the bowl of a food processor. Blitz until it looks sandy and no large chunks of butter remain.
Add the honey and milk, then blitz again until it comes together. Transfer to a clean work surface. Knead the mixture together a few times to make sure all the dry ingredients are well mixed with the wet, then bring together into a ball. Flatten to make a disk and wrap in cling film. Chill for an hour or so.
Remove from the fridge, then divide the disk in two. Place one half between two sheets of baking paper, and roll out to a diameter of 25 centimeters. Use a wheeled pizza cutter (or a knife) to cut into 16 pieces, then prick the whole surface with a pastry docker or a fork. Refrigerate for 30 minutes. Repeat with the remaining dough
.Preheat the oven to 160ºC (with fan) and remove one sheet of dough from the fridge. Gently peel each unbaked cracker from the paper (or lift with an offset spatula if you have one) and place it back down so they are spaced apart. Bake in the oven for 20 minutes, turning the tray halfway through baking. They should be evenly browned, but not too dark. Remove from the oven and transfer to a wire cooling rack to cool completely. They’ll harden as they cool. Repeat with the second sheet of dough.
This recipe makes slightly more than the mud pie requires, but the leftovers can be stored in an airtight container for at least a week. They’re very tasty on their own!
The little tootsie on the bowl 🥺🦶🏼
Your sense of self never so confused and how you try to litteraly show your child that you are not just his mother. It’s really touching and I can see myself reflected. Thank you for your words